


My Mistress

by theonetheonlyalexthemonarch



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: (maybe?) - Freeform, Abuse, Apathy, Death, Depression, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, Fucked Up, Hypnosis, Murder, Physical Abuse, Reader Discretion is Advised, Suicide, Uhm, Violence, also not implied hypnosis, implied hypnosis, it could just be psychological abuse, it's open to interpretation, oh boy, this is really depressing guys if you will be triggered please don't read, this one makes me sad, this one's depressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 06:13:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8612398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theonetheonlyalexthemonarch/pseuds/theonetheonlyalexthemonarch
Summary: You met her one day.
 
The short and agonizing relationship between the Mistress and her favorite human toy.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, okay. I wrote this in the middle of the night one night and when I woke up and read it I realized just how sad it was.
> 
> So! Warnings: abuse, depression, murder, suicide, apathy, and bad writing. Please, please be careful reading this. I don't want to trigger anyone.
> 
> Also this is just really poorly written. This is why you don't write things in the middle of the night.

You met her one day.

She was without a doubt the most beautiful person that you'd ever seen.

You stopped and stared, amazed, stunned. She saw. She smirked. She knew what you were thinking.

She invited you to come away with her.

"Why?" You asked.

"I want a toy," she said.

You were a stupid human. You thought she meant for sex. You were wrong. You didn't know that, though.

"I don't do that stuff."

"You do for me."

You looked at her. You'd probably face torture for her. You didn't even know her name.

"I do for you," you agreed.

You were enthralled.

She grinned.

 

 

"I want to kill you," she had said.

"I want to die," you replied, unimpressed.

"I want to kill you mentally and emotionally."

"I'm already dead mentally and emotionally."

"I want to destroy you."

"I've already been destroyed."

"Then I guess I'll have to repair you and then destroy you again."

You were confused.

She smiled.

 

 

She was a goddess.

Your goddess.

Well, no, you were her servant. A vengeful goddess like herself had many servants. She didn't need you.

But you liked to think, because you were the only one who traveled with her, she liked you best.

Ridiculous.

You were human, expendable. She didn't need you.

But still, you'd try to imagine, just for a moment, that she cared for you. That it mattered to her whether or not you were dead.

You never could manage it.

You were devoted.

She smirked.

 

 

She was brighter than the stars, than the sun, than any sun you had ever seen, than any sun ever.

She was amazing.

Brilliant.

She made you smile, she made you want to live, she blinded you with her light.

You couldn't see. Your eyes hurt.

You were happy.

She twitched the corners of her mouth upwards.

 

 

Someone had kidnapped you. You were prepared for her to go on without you. You had accepted it.

But instead she stormed the place you were kept. She was covered in blood by the time she got to you. There were no bodies left. Just unidentifiable masses of flesh.

Strange. She was usually neat.

She found you. She grabbed your throat.

Blackness.

You woke up in your room. She was there. She kissed you. You kissed back.

You were in love.

She didn't react.

 

 

She was tantalizing.

Light, innocent touches that drove you mad.

Subtle reminders of dark nights.

Sometimes, in front of a crowd, she would grab you and kiss you deeply. You would stand, flustered and shocked as she would kiss and bite her way down your neck.

You were hers. That's what she was saying.

And you couldn't agree more. Not after sighing and moaning and choking and screaming your way through some nights.

You were hers.

She curled her upper lip.

 

 

You were always bruised on your neck, that was the fault of her tongue and teeth.

But on your sides and chest and arms and legs, well.

They were also her fault.

You never fought back, no. She was your whole life. You needed her.

Besides, you thought bruises were pretty.

Not nearly as beautiful as her, but pretty. Discolorations on the skin, blooming like flowers, making your otherwise boring skin become interesting with colorful blossoms and vines growing up your ribs.

It made you more beautiful.

You were content.

She frowned.

 

 

She was evil.

You usually forgot about this.

But now you remembered.

She was evil.

And she was holding a gun to your best friend's head.

You were crying.

 

Your best friend was fighting all the while.

You were begging. She liked it when you begged.

You placed yourself at her feet, offering yourself up, as what, you weren't sure. Maybe a sacrifice, a distraction, a toy, a replacement, you weren't sure.

She looked down at you with something in her eyes. Did she understand?

Bang.

Blood dripped down the newly made hole in the corpse that used to hold your best friend.

You were numb.

She was disgusted.

 

 

She met you one day. You were enthralled by her. She grinned. She just got a new toy.

She wanted to destroy you. You were already broken. So she would fix you and break you again. You were confused. She smiled. She was allowed to break her new toy.

You would worship the ground she walked on as though she were holy. You were devoted. She smirked. Her toy was loyal.

You looked at her like she was better than everything. She was. But you were happy. She twitched the corners of her mouth upwards. She was losing interest in her toy.

Like a jealous child, she fought with those who had taken you away from her. It was her toy, dammit. She played a bit too rough, but you were in love, so all was forgiven. You were in love. She didn't react. Her toy was boring.

You were a good fuck. But you were still just another sex toy. An object that she owned. You were hers. She curled her upper lip. Her toy had stopped being fun to play with.

The bruises were pretty, she had to agree with you there. But still, you were so complacent. Content. She frowned. She had finally broken her toy, and now she wanted a new one.

She killed your best friend without a drop of remorse; the body laid out on the ground, blood spreading all across the floor in addition to the chunks of blood and brain that were on you and her and the walls. Not her usual way of murder, too messy, but worth it. To see her ex-toy covered in blood and tears and dispair. Worth it to hear the gentle and desperate pleas escape from your mouth like blood from the hole in your best friend's head, as though that would make the corpse spring back to life, as though that would stop her from shooting the now cooling body. You were numb. It figures. You couldn't even impress her by giving her an entertaining emotional response. She was disgusted.

The last time she saw you was not in person. She was actually surfing the internet. She saw your face and hoped you weren't organizing some witch hunt for her or something. She clicked on your face. Huh. Evidently, you were dead. Suicide. Depression after the murder of your best friend, then eventual suicide by hanging yourself in the bathroom. Well, that was one less thing to worry about. She glanced over the article before gazing at your picture. It was a nice one, one that she had taken. She supposed it was good enough. You didn't have any bruises, which was always a shame. Ugh. Suicide. How horribly boring.

She clicked out.

Her only regret was that the article didn't have pictures of your body, hanging from ceiling, pale with death.

Oh well.

That was the end of that.

You never crossed her mind again.

**Author's Note:**

> Please go read something fluffy now to make you feel better. Sorry.


End file.
